


Where did she go when she died

by Mothwood



Category: Bleach
Genre: Can be read as platonic grimmichi, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Daddy Issues, Gen, Grimm is working on it, Ichi is just a dumb shit, It isn't mentioned I just want you to know he is :), Late term mourning, M/M, Mommy Issues, Other minor characters are mentioned/interacted with, Past Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Relationship Grimmichi, The parental issues are strong with my boy, Trans Ichigo Kurosaki, Trans Male Character, Trans!Ichigo, but not of Ichigo or Grimm, delayed mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothwood/pseuds/Mothwood
Summary: (Can she be remembered)He doesn't know what to do, with this confusing revelation.It keeps him up, biting at his lip and scowling fiercely at the ceiling again. The smooth white surface receives a lot of his late-night ire.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64





	Where did she go when she died

Childhood memories fracture after a while. They revolve around the strangest things. At least, the ones that can even be recalled clearly in the first place; the distinct image of a mouse running past the couch, the way the flywire door clicked and creaked open at night when Ichigo snuck out past his bedtime to stare at the stars.

His mother's hand, perfectly filed nails, the striations in them. She's holding out his school bag for him to put on. 

His father is a more distant figure, in these blurry recollections. In and out of the house, through the rooms and into the clinic that he was too young to really see. His mother always said there were dangerous things in there, that he could hurt himself on them. 

Isshin didn't hold through with that sentiment after his mother was dead. By ten, he was being taught how to correctly clean and wrap a wound, sterilise equipment - so he could help out at least a little. Probably highly illegal; Ichigo appreciates the life skills it taught him. 

But the point is that childhood, the further away it stretches from his present, becomes low-res, warped TV static. It distorts itself, fades away. He can't remember much at all, in the end, entire years fully emptied from his mind, replaced with what he assumes are real events, but have only been _told_ to him. His father shares with Ichigo the story of him climbing the back of the couch to sit on it and look out the window, and how he had looked away for a _second_ and Ichigo had apparently fallen down the back of it, between the furniture and the wall. Tells him he sniffed and sobbed as his mother put ointment on the shallow scrapes he acquired and that he only stopped when she kissed his forehead. 

This is a fabricated memory - he can play it out in his head from a third person perspective but he cannot recall it directly. He only assumes it's true from his father's rendition of the event. 

Isshin could be lying through his teeth about it. It's not like the only other witness could possibly chime in, from her grave. Ichigo wouldn't even be surprised, really. It seems like the sort of thing the man would do; convince himself of something, for his own amusement. It's never _malicious,_ but it makes him an unreliable source for anecdotes. 

This makes it near impossible for Ichigo to truly learn about who his mother _was_ as a person, as he grows up. 

Oh, he's sure she was kind, as Isshin says. He remembers her kindness, in snippets and pictures and the way her hair fell forward over him as she leaned down to kiss his cheek goodnight as she tucked him in. A waterfall of silky orange-gold. 

He's sure she was a good mother, and that she loved him and Yuzu and Karin. Sure that she would have adored his sisters as much as he did. Isshin says all of these things, and Ichigo knows they are true, distantly, but it means nothing. Not really. 

She died protecting him. She was dead before they hit the ground, her shiny hair dull in the poor lighting, wet and sticking to his face as he cried and cried until he passed out himself, begging her to wake up. 

_Oh_ , her death lingers crystalline in his memories. Other recollections from his youth may vanish with time, even parts of his later years, eight nine ten eleven twelve, they fade. Blur, become wrapped incorrectly around other memories entirely.

He will never forget that one. 

Ichigo wants to know who she was. Not her kindness, or her love, or her sacrifice. 

Did Masaki Kurosaki like coffee? Did she hate spicy food? Did she groan at the sight of ads on the television? What sort of movies did she enjoy? 

These are things his father _should_ know, but even if he does, he wouldn't say. Asking questions about his mother is like pulling teeth with Isshin. 

Kisuke is slightly more helpful; for once. It's a surprising twist, with the ex-shinigami usually being so mysterious and reticent. 

But his knowledge is lacking and full of holes. He knew her, met her, and even saved her life, but they were not _close_. It was a few interactions that spanned over time, and nothing personal. 

Ichigo learns that she was stubborn in her youth. That she really did marry his father right out of highschool, (and this makes Ichigo uncomfortable, knowing he is older now than she was when she married a man who was functionally immortal, knowing little to nothing about his background) and that she'd been _thrilled_ when she had fallen pregnant. 

Kisuke tells Ichigo that she was headstrong, and although she seemed quite sweet and placid, she was not the sort of person you could say _no_ to. She could be cold, could freeze you with a single look, but he'd never seen her truly angry. He didn't know what she liked to eat or drink, if she liked comedy or tragedies, if she preferred books to movies. 

  
  
  


Ichigo stands in the entrance of his apartment, that afternoon, stares at his hand holding the key, the front door closed and locked behind him. It's a simple piece of metal, cut out in jagged shapes, but it's safety and freedom all in one. It's a portal to separation, as is the apartment itself. 

It's relatively devoid of decoration, so far. He has no doubt if any of his friends saw it, they'd fill it with trinkets and colour, one after the other--Orihime might offer a colourful throw blanket for the simple couch, Uryuu would probably thrust a wall tapestry on him, Chad might offer to find frames for some of Ichigo's photos. Tatsuki would no doubt bully him into buying some extra cushions for the couch. 

He likes it empty, though. Likes the walls bare and the hardwood floors shiny and clear of rugs and mats. Likes the way his utensils and plates all vanish into the cupboards and only the bare essentials are left on display along the kitchen counters. 

It's why there's only one person who's been allowed into his apartment so far; but it's mostly because Grimmjow wouldn't take no for an answer in the first place. 

Sometimes Ichigo comes back to the place to find the arrancar sprawled out on his bed, reading his books, or having added another soft blanket or pillow to the ever growing amount covering the queen sized mattress. (A bigger bed was the first thing he'd acquired for himself upon moving out of his tiny room in his family home.)

If Ichigo was prone to sappiness, he might assume Grimmjow was trying to help, in his own way, by making Ichigo more comfortable. But Ichigo is not prone to fits of this, and he knows well enough that Grimmjow sees them more as offerings to the owner of the territory. And as a claim of his own- _look, I brought this, you'll use it now, and it will be a mark of me. It proves I was here, and it allows me to stay._

Ichigo gives Grimmjow the spare key. 

* * *

He turns to Ryuuken next, for answers about his mother. Uryuu has never exactly dripped praise for his father--in fact, it was one of the things they quietly bonded over. Dead mothers, shitty fathers; even if it was in different ways. There's a mutuality to it. 

Personally, even now, Ichigo would rather break Ryuuken's nose with a two by four and then go to town on his ribs than speak civilly with him; as, he assumes, Uryuu himself probably fantasises about on the daily. 

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and as far as Ichigo is concerned, after all the silence, Ryuuken _owes_ him answers. He doesn't want a quincy education- he simply wants to know his mother. 

He still wears Masaki's cross to the meeting, though. He's worn it intermittently ever since she died. Two days after her funeral he'd snuck into his father's room and gone through the closet to find it; it hadn't been on her wrist in the casket and he'd known, somehow, that his father would put it away. He'd found it in a small jewellery box, tucked in the corner, and he'd left with it clutched in his hand and never looked back. He assumed his father had realised soon enough that it was missing, but if Isshin did, he'd been wise enough not to try and retrieve it. 

Ichigo wouldn't have let it go to save his life. 

Over time it found more of a home in his desk than on his wrist; but he'd taken to wearing it again. Uryuu always seemed tense, when he spotted it peering out the sleeve of Ichigo's shirt or jacket, almost as if waiting: for a question, maybe, a request to learn. 

But Ichigo has little interest in quincy tradition, rules, or combat. If it had been his mother teaching him, it would be another story, but as it is, the last thing she ever managed to teach him was that he was the one that got her killed, that he could not afford to be weak and need protection; although he knows this is not the lesson she would have liked to impart upon him. 

Ryuuken isn't as detailed as Kisuke is. His answers are blunt, unembellished. He does not make them pretty or long winded, and Ichigo appreciates it somewhat, but it leads him to ( spitefully) ask more and more specific questions; searching out every single last shred he can of his mother's life and personality. 

Ryuuken does not offer him tea, or any other pleasantries. Ichigo wouldn't have drunk it anyway. 

They sit across from each other in a room as sterile as Ryuuken's personality and Ichigo clasps his hands in his lap, and _asks_. 

There's so much knowledge to be gained, and the other man's eyes turn from distant and uncaring grey to firm, cold steel the harder Ichigo digs and pries. What colours did she gravitate towards? Did she prefer lighter meals for breakfast? Inane things, unnecessary, but to Ichigo each one is a puzzle piece to a jigsaw he hasn't quite figured out the end game image of. 

* * *

  
  


Grimmjow is lurking on the street outside as he leaves, Ryuuken probably plotting his demise behind him, and Ichigo is concerned for all of three seconds before the arrancar scoffs, slouching and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit. The teeth of his mask click as he works his jaw, before finally deigning to grace Ichigo with actual words. 

"Got bored waiting around at your shitty apartment for you. Come fight me."

It's more a demand than a request, but Ichigo smiles all the same, barely there and hesitant. Wordlessly he turns on his heels, heading towards the shoten instead of back home. 

Grimmjow flickers into his peripheral, a wide, manic grin stretched across his face, and Ichigo doesn't let thoughts of his mother swarm his mind again until well into the night, after hours of exertion have left him slightly bloodied; sweaty and bruised under his shihakusho. 

There's a thrill to fighting the arrancar, every time. A spark Ichigo doesn't feel very often, anymore. He can't help but draw all of his focus and attention to blue hair and bluer eyes, electric. His world narrows down on Grimmjow, on the way Zangetsu _sings_ in his hands and through the air, and it's _cathartic._

Later, Ichigo will lay in his bed, hair still damp from his shower and splayed across the pillow, and stare at the dark shadows across his ceiling. The orange mess is getting longer, now, and he's toyed around with the idea of cutting it again; maybe even going somewhere professional, since Yuzu is no longer around to do it for him, and he doesn't want to visit _just_ to ask her for that. 

Another, larger part of him wants to grow it out as long as he can and see if it frames his face the way it did his mother's in his foggy memories and the pictures of her. 

He wakes up to his alarm, and to Grimmjow effortlessly taking up a good portion of the bed, existing in Ichigo's space like he belongs there. This time, at least, he's kicked his shoes off, and Ichigo assumes he came in some time late last night to crash. Mostly he stays at the shoten, but it's become a regular enough occurrence to wake up to some part of their bodies pressed together that Ichigo no longer reacts violently to the contact. Right now the entirety of Grimmjow's spine is pressed up against Ichigo's hip, thigh, and waist, the larger man curled up in some sort of pretzel imitation and facing away. 

The near-mountainous piles of pillows and blankets have been carefully arranged around the two of them, and Ichigo realises with a start that even if Grimmjow moves around and shifts things, Ichigo instinctively trusts him enough not to wake; the familiar feeling of hollow-tinted-shinigami reiatsu clearly a safe sensation even in his dreams. 

Grimmjow could kill Ichigo in his sleep. 

He never gets around to being concerned about this fact. 

* * *

  
  


Ichigo considers, briefly, one day over breakfast, trying to get in contact with the rest of his mother's family. The thought is fleeting; easily pushed to the side. After Ryuuken's bland explanation of _why,_ exactly, he grew up with Ichigo's mother, there really wouldn't be many people around who even knew her, let alone could offer more information. And Ichigo isn't interested in a branch of the family that tried to make her marry _Ryuuken._

It does, however, explain things. Like why she was so willing to marry Isshin so _young._ Better that than having to marry the equivalent of her own brother. 

He pauses, looks to the side, down the short hallway that connects the bedroom and bathroom to the kitchen and lounge area. 

Isn't that sad? That his mother would have taken the apparent 'enemy' of her bloodline over someone she actually knew, out of some strange mix of gratitude and - what. Strategy? Sure, he knows well enough that Isshin was the one keeping her _alive,_ (startlingly honourable, sacrificing his own power to keep her from being destroyed) for the sense of the term, with a hollow poisoning her body- but that doesn't mean she had to resort to a romantic relationship. 

He can't quite imagine his father winning anyone over, romantically. His own kids are disillusioned in regards to him. 

Ichigo wonders what she saw in him, to not only marry, but have three children with the man. 

  
  
  


Time passes the way syrup drips through liquid and gathers at the base of a glass; slow and drifting and thick. The muggy heat of summer settles over Ichigo's shoulders like a haze, leaves him sweating even on his early morning runs, before the sun is out enough to turn the asphalt on the road to borderline liquid. 

Ichigo hasn't had to fight a hollow in almost a year. 

Between the concerted efforts of his friends and the constant, lingering presence of the once-espada, who's probably claimed Karakura as _his_ territory, now, hollows barely step through rifts in the world before being obliterated in one way or another. That doesn't mean he's _bored-_ no, Ichigo has managed, over time, to wrangle both Kisuke and, when she's around, Yoruichi, into semi-regular spars with him; usually when Grimmjow either isn't there, or is up for a brawl with multiple opponents. 

It's good. Strange, but _good,_ genuinely so, a routine and lifestyle he enjoys. Tatsuki falls into step with him when his runs take him past her apartment. If he's not there by a certain time, she goes off without him, but when they do run together, feet landing heavy on the pavement and perfectly synchronised, nothing really needs to be said. 

Still, Ichigo thinks of his mother. Folds everything he's learned of her over and over in his head, like creasing and un-creasing paper to read a secret note someone has passed you in class. Precious, somehow, but it doesn't necessarily make much sense. Like a massive tapestry full of mismatched _personhood,_ all the things that would have made her wholly human and unique, except huge swathes have been torn from the weave. 

He doesn't know what to do, with this confusing revelation. He can't possibly remake his mother in his head as a complete entity, not without her being here to show him exactly who she is. Would he have even been this interested in her likes, dislikes, her story and past, the little quirks that separated her from anyone else, if she had been alive? Or would his image of his mother have been as pale and washed out in person as it is years after her death? 

It keeps him up, biting at his lip and scowling fiercely at the ceiling again. The smooth white surface receives a lot of his late-night ire. 

Grimmjow sighs next to him, rolls over and throws an arm over Ichigo's waist, sharp fingernails pricking at the sheets on the other side of him before his hand curls, gripping Ichigo directly and dragging him in close. His scowl lessens as he's pulled across the mattress, right up against the arrancar's chest instead, and Grimmjow shoves his chin into Ichigo's hair, making him wince as the point of it digs into his scalp. 

"Stop thinking so damn _loud._ She's right here, isn't she? So what if she's dead. Her blood's still going. You still love her, or whatever sappy shit humans ascribe to their parents. 'S not a big deal if you don't remember her quite right."

Ichigo blinks, and his breath escapes him in a warm rush over Grimmjow's collarbones. The hollow doesn't so much as twitch, his hierro too insensitive to register the sensation, and Ichigo hums, slightly. 

It's not quite that Grimmjow is _right._ Not fully. But- Ichigo can see what he means, what he's implying. 

"Would you come visit her with me?" He asks, abrupt. He hasn't gone to his mother's grave outside of the yearly visits. Not since her funeral, but he thinks, maybe, without the guilt of his siblings and father lingering at his peripherals; if he can just--be there, with someone who wasn't actually _affected_ by Ichigo's childish mistake-

It might give him closure. 

Grimmjow huffs under his breath, and reluctantly squeezes Ichigo closer, for a second, then eases his grip again, although he doesn't remove his arm. 

"Sure, Kurosaki. As long as you stop thinking and go to _sleep._ "

Ichigo twists his face into Grimmjow's throat, and smiles against the cold, smooth skin. It's something. It's- maybe not an end, but. It's _something._

**Author's Note:**

> This was formatted for reading on mobile, so big apologies if the spacing is super weird to y'all on laptops & shit!


End file.
